


A Favor For a Friend

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Time, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-15 08:38:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8049607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: The assassin is flirting with him.Alistair is not impressed. No, really, he's not!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DragonRider1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonRider1/gifts).



The assassin is flirting with him.

Alistair doesn't have a lot of experience with such things, but he hardly needs it: the broad wink and the deliberate way the assassin's eyes scan him from head to foot are all so blatantly sexual Alistair flushes. His face and ears feel like they're burning, and he scowls, fingers tightening on his shield grip.

"Ah, and you blush so prettily," the assassin says with a grin, as cheerful as if he isn't swaying on his feet, one hand pressed to the wound in his side. His own blood is oozing through his fingers and Alistair's blood is still bright on the knives at their feet--knives Brosca intends to give back--and suddenly the whole thing makes Alistair ill.

He turns away and almost trips over Brosca, who's come up behind him as silent as ever. "This is a terrible idea," Alistair snaps, though he said it before and it gained him nothing.

Brosca grins, but unlike the assassin's grin, this one has an edge to it. "Nothing good ever comes from keeping an assassin around, hmmm?"

Alistair's ears burn hotter, and he stumbles over an apology Brosca doesn't stay to hear.

Now even angrier, Alistair looks back over his shoulder, only to find the assassin watching him. There's a moment where those brown eyes are serious and watchful, studying him as intently as ever Alistair studied an opponent's movements on the battlefield.

A chill crawls up Alistair's spine, but then the inviting smile is back, the intent look gone as if it was never there, and Alistair decides he was imagining it.

###

"Why do _I_ have to share a tent with him?" Alistair demands, aware of how whiny he sounds and unable to care. Any day that begins with an assassination attempt and ends with him having to sleep beside the assassin in question is a day when he's allowed to whine a little.

"You were the one who said this was a terrible idea," Brosca says, wearing the same toothy grin as earlier.

"Exact-"

"So now you can keep an eye on him." There's a glitter in Brosca's eye, half amusement and half challenge. "Protect the rest of us while we sleep. You can even share your watch shift, to be sure he isn't slitting anyone's throat when you're not around."

Alistair draws in a deep breath through his nose and lets it out slowly. A hundred arguments crowd his thoughts, but he only needs to look at Brosca's face to know it's pointless.

"Fine," he says ungraciously, flinging his pack through the tent door without bothering to check if the assassin is in the way. Alistair rather hopes he is.

Of course he isn't, because it's been that sort of day, and of course the pack lands in such a way that Alistair has to shove it awkwardly to one side before he can crawl inside after it. The assassin has better sense than to laugh, at least, and if he's smiling, Alistair can't tell: his back is to the tent flap and he appears to be focused on straightening his bedroll.

There's silence between them for a while, Alistair setting out his own bedroll while trying to keep one eye on the assassin. Moving is made harder by his refusal to take off his sword, and while he's worn a sword for more than half his life, it's one thing to walk around with it at his hip and another to crawl around in the confined space of a tent. He comes close to tripping several times, and he doesn't manage to avoid knocking it against the tent frame with a sharp clack.

The assassin sighs dramatically. "Put aside your sword, my friend. I promise your throat is safe enough from me."

Alistair makes a noise of deep suspicion. "I'm not your friend."

"Are you not, then?" the assassin says, grinning over one shoulder at him. "I've promised not to kill you, and your charming leader has promised on your behalf that you will not kill me. Among the Crows, we would call ourselves the best of friends."

"You're not with the Crows," Alistair says, deliberately harsh to avoid thinking too hard about the assassin's words. What kind of life is that, where "I won't kill you today" is considered friendship? No matter how little Alistair cared for the thought of being a templar, he'd had a few friends among his fellow recruits, and he'd always trusted that any of them would defend him without hesitation. "You said they'd kill you, if they learn you're still alive."

The assassin's face goes too still for a moment, then the grin comes back. "So I have all the reason in the world to ensure your survival. Otherwise, who will protect me from the Crows?"

Alistair refuses to feel any sympathy for someone who tried to kill him less than a day ago. "The Crows can have you," he mutters.

The grin doesn't flicker this time. If anything, the assassin is almost laughing now. "Well, you are certainly broad enough that I could hide behind you, should they come for me." Another look like the one from earlier, a too-warm gaze that runs up and down the length of Alistair's body. "Such lovely broad shoulders," the assassin adds, as if musing aloud.

Alistair resists the urge to try to cover himself. "Stop looking at my shoulders," he says, then flushes at exactly how stupid that sounds. "Stop looking at _me_."

"It would be a shame to give up looking at such a handsome man," the assassin says, the laugh clear in his voice, "but as we are friends, I will do my best. And as we are friends, I promise not to slit your throat in the night." His eyes drop to Alistair's throat, and his smile changes, becomes seductive rather than teasing. "That would be a waste of such a beautiful throat. There are so many better things I could do with it."

Another flush crawls across Alistair's face, burning his skin. The assassin's voice promises all sorts of things Alistair's body wants even as his mind struggles to imagine them. Without any experience, he doesn't know enough to even guess what someone might do with someone else's throat. Are throats actually that interesting? He's never considered his beyond making sure it's protected, and he's certainly never considered anyone else's as anything but a target.

"I could show you," the assassin offers, his voice dropping lower.

That jolts Alistair out of his thoughts, and the blush deepens so much it's painful. "No," he says forcefully. In case that isn't clear, he adds, "I'll let you touch me when the Maker Himself comes back."

The assassin tries to look serious, but there's a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. "Your loss, my friend." Then he sighs again, mock-sadly. "Though mine as well. You do have very nice shoulders."

###

Alistair doesn't sleep at all that night, unwilling to close his eyes for so much as a moment. He sleeps on his side, though it makes his hip ache by morning, watching while the assassin sleeps peacefully.

The next night is no better, Alistair watching the assassin and hating him more than ever. How does Brosca expect him to sleep, trapped in a tent with an elf who tried to kill all of them? It's only a matter of time before someone offers the right amount of coin, and then the assassin will do what he's paid to do, killing not just Brosca and Alistair but also any hope of saving Ferelden from the Blight.

The following day passes in a blur, Alistair struggling to keep up with the hard pace Brosca sets. It's no harder than any other day, but after two nights with no sleep, Alistair's body feels wrung dry. Brosca watches him with a tight frown, and that night when they make camp, Brosca corners him.

"You need to sleep." The words are hard, uncompromising.

"I can't sleep with _him_ right there," Alistair complains.

"Then sleep on the ground by the fire," Brosca says. "I don't care, just get some sleep before you kill yourself."

"But then no one's keeping an eye on him!" Somewhere in Alistair's sleep-deprived brain, this is all perfectly logical, that Alistair needs to stay up at night to keep them all from being killed, even if it means he'll be useless in a fight.

By the look Brosca gives him, it's not a compelling argument to someone who's been sleeping just fine the last two nights. "In the tent or by the fire. I don't care, but get some fucking sleep tonight." It sounds like a threat.

Alistair sulks off, not sure he cares anymore if the assassin _does_ stab him in his sleep. At least then he wouldn't have to face an irate Brosca in the morning.

For a wonder, though, he finds himself nodding off over dinner, and unlike last night, the sleepiness doesn't disappear when he lies down in his bedroll. His eyes close almost instantly, and he sleeps hard, not even darkspawn dreams to disturb him.

He wakes to sunlight glowing through the tent canvas, surprised to realize he's slept well into the morning. It's a wonder Brosca didn't roust him long ago, and Alistair doesn't doubt there will be jokes at his expense for sleeping so late, but it's worth it. He feels better than he has in weeks, since long before they met the assassin.

The tent flap opens, and the assassin looks in on him, smiling when his eyes meet Alistair's. "Ah, I see you've woken at last!"

Alistair scowls at him. He's feeling better; that doesn't mean he's feeling any more kindly disposed toward people who tried to kill him.

"And did you sleep well?" the assassin asks, a tiny smirk curling the corners of his mouth as he sidles into the tent.

Understanding hits Alistair like a punch to the gut. "You poisoned me!"

The assassin makes an offended noise and crawls across the ground to his own bedroll. "Had I poisoned you, my friend, we would not be speaking now. I merely saved you the embarrassment of facing our charming leader in the morning, after disobeying such a pointed order. A favor for a friend, you might say."

"I don't need favors from you," Alistair says, reaching for his clothes to avoid reaching for the assassin's throat. He's pretty sure that's not on the list of interesting things people do with other people's throats, but it's the one he most wants to try right now.

When there's no witty response, Alistair looks over his shoulder to find the assassin watching him and smiling faintly.

"What?" Alistair demands.

"A thing you might consider, my friend: where I can put a sleeping potion, I can as easily put something that will ensure you never wake again." His smile is all innocence. "None of you saw me, and no one suspected. I could have done much worse."

"And that's supposed to reassure me?"

The assassin shrugs. "Whether it does or not is entirely up to you. I merely offer it up for you to think on later, when you fight to stay awake to keep watch over me."

For something that could easily be a threat, Alistair finds instead that it _is_ oddly reassuring. If nothing else, it absolves him of responsibility, because if he has no hope of spotting an attempt on their lives, then losing sleep over it is foolish. And it's painfully clear now that he _wouldn't_ spot an attempt. The assassin was nowhere near the food at any point last night, and he was never close enough to touch Alistair. When and how he applied his poison, Alistair hasn't the faintest idea.

He has no intention of giving the assassin the satisfaction of hearing him say it, though.

Instead, he finishes pulling on his coat of plates, leaving the armored greaves for later, and crawls toward the tent flap. As he's reaching for the canvas, movement from the corner of his eye catches his attention, and a warrior's instinct has him turning before he thinks.

He curses that instinct in the next moment, even as the rest of his brain is reduced to incoherence. The assassin is putting on his own armor, but for the moment, he's shirtless, his trousers hanging low on his hips. Tattoos swirl across his back, echoing the one on his cheek, and those ink lines draw Alistair's eyes down, down, down to where they disappear.

It would be less distracting if the assassin was naked, Alistair thinks distantly. As it is, all he has is a hint, a promise of more that he can fill in however he wants, and after years living in the barracks as a templar recruit, Alistair can complete the picture in a number of interesting ways. He may not have enough experience to know what he would do if the assassin was naked, and Maker knows he's never been interested in men, but his mouth goes dry and his cock stiffens anyway.

The assassin glances back and catches him staring, and Alistair almost falls over in his haste to get out of the tent and away from that knowing smile.

Brosca doesn't say anything about his abrupt appearance, offering only a dry, "Do you want some lunch?" as a comment about Alistair waking at nearly noon.

"Lunch would be good," Alistair says to his feet. He knows his face is red, and it's a minor miracle he doesn't stutter.

No one comments on that, either. Leliana hands him a bowl of stew, and food is suddenly the only thing on Alistair's mind. He eats it so fast he barely tastes it and is in the middle of getting himself a second bowl when the assassin emerges from their tent.

He's fully dressed now, all those intriguing tattoos hidden under his armor. Except for the one on his cheek, and as soon as Alistair glances at that one, he's knocked breathless by the memory of the others.

His face turns scarlet again, and the assassin smirks, that same smile that says he knows every thought in Alistair's head and can make every fantasy come true.

Distracted, Alistair pours stew onto his hand instead of into his bowl and swears as the heat scorches through him. The others turn to stare at him, but all Alistair can see is the assassin, smiling that wicked smile.

###

So of course the assassin teases him mercilessly. Every day on the road, his conversation is littered with jokes and hints that Alistair doesn't understand, and the assassin takes deep delight in Alistair's blushes. Often the words are innocent on the surface, and it's only his sly glances that reveal some double meaning to make Brosca laugh and Leliana giggle.

The whole thing makes Alistair feel stupid and alone, and sleeping beside his tormentor doesn't help. He no longer worries about being killed in his sleep, but there are plenty of nights where he thinks seriously about making an assassination attempt of his own.

Brosca wouldn't be happy, though, and Alistair isn't prepared to risk all of Ferelden, not to mention his last connection to Duncan and the Grey Wardens, just for the satisfaction of killing one aggravating elf.

He endures, because it's the only thing he can do, but he doesn't have to like it.

###

The assassin has been with them three weeks when the darkspawn dreams turn ugly. They're never pleasant, but Alistair has grown accustomed to them, and they rarely do more than wake him momentarily.

This one grabs him by the throat and won't let go, the archdemon soaring over Ostagar the way it never did in real life. Loghain calls the retreat while Cailan is dying, Duncan is dying, everywhere Alistair looks people are dying, and he's trapped at the top of a tower, unable to help, _useless_ -

"Alistair!"

He wakes with a gasp, lashing out at the shadow hovering over him. His fist connects with the shadow's chest, and the assassin makes a startled "oomph!" as all the air is forced from his lungs.

For a moment, the dream tangles with Alistair's hatred for the elf looming over him, and he almost strikes again, wanting nothing more than to make someone else hurt as much as he does.

"Alistair." It comes out wheezy, the assassin still trying to catch his breath, but he hasn't moved away.

Guilt mixes in with the anger, and Alistair tucks his hands under his arms to restrain any further impulses toward violence. "You startled me," he mutters. It's the best apology he can manage under the circumstances.

"I had come to that conclusion, yes." The assassin is still a shadow, but Alistair can hear him breathe, a little too loud. "It was not my intent, but you were...ah...quite clearly unhappy. I thought it better to wake you."

"Sorry if I disturbed you," Alistair says with as much sarcasm as he can muster. "I'll try to keep my nightmares quieter from now on."

"Very little disturbs me," the assassin says cheerfully as he moves away, toward his bedroll.

Maybe it's the darkness, forcing Alistair to listen to his voice rather than watch his face, but the cheer sounds forced, overlaying an unhappiness Alistair has never heard before. It's a struggle, but guilt wins over anger just as the assassin finishes settling himself down to sleep.

"I'm sorry," Alistair says again, with sincerity this time. "I shouldn't have...that was..." He doesn't know how to finish either sentence, so he gives up and repeats, "I'm sorry."

"It is forgotten," the assassin says. For all the lightness is his words, he still doesn't sound happy.

Alistair swallows, too loud in the darkness, and adds in a whisper, "Thank you."

Zevran sighs. "Consider it a favor for a friend."

Silence, then, weighted with something other than Alistair's distrust. It keeps him awake long after the memory of the dream has faded.

###

If Alistair thought the teasing would stop after that, he learns otherwise quickly. The assassin acts as if the conversation never happened, as if there was never that hint of loneliness in his voice. For a few days, it annoys Alistair to have the whole thing so summarily dismissed, until he begins to notice that something _has_ changed.

The jokes are still there, yes, but the assassin turns toward him now, drawing him in, telling the joke to him rather than at his expense. Alistair still doesn't understand more than a tenth of what's being hinted at, but he learns to laugh when Brosca does, to pretend he knows intimately things he doesn't know at all. If he's not fooling anyone, at least he feels a little less lonely.

Then they reach Kinloch Hold, and none of them feels like laughing anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

When Uldred is dead, Alistair leaves Brosca to negotiate over the Grey Warden treaty and hides himself away in the tavern beside the dock. He wants to be as far from the tower as possible, and this is the best he can do for now. At least he has half of Lake Calenhad between himself and the corpses.

He has no such distance from the horror that's been creeping through him since they found the trapped templar. The glowing prison hums in his memory, the Chant a desperate murmur under it, the two rising and falling in rhythm with each other.

No, distance from Kinloch Hold isn't going to do any good for that.

Drinking helps, though. A lot of drinking. The barkeep doesn't care, so long as he starts no trouble and pays for each drink as it's brought, and Alistair is well on his way to truly, deeply drunk when a hand comes down on his shoulder.

It takes a moment for Alistair to remember how to turn, and then another moment to make his eyes focus on the person standing beside him.

The assassin.

"You," Alistair says dully, without rancor. He doesn't have the energy left to hate anyone except Uldred right now, and even that is distant. His thoughts are occupied with the memory of too much blood, too much screaming, too many hallways full of corpses.

And a voice, nearly broken but struggling on, reciting the Chant, holding it up as a last shield against everything the demons could promise.

"Me," the assassin says agreeably. He peers into Alistair's mug, then into Alistair's face. "How many have you had?"

"Dunno," Alistair says. He hasn't bothered to keep track. "Not enough."

The assassin snorts. It might be amusement, or it might be derision.

Ignoring him seems the best choice, perhaps the only one after so much drink. Alistair drains his mug, then holds it up and makes bleary eye contact with the barkeep. They've done this so often Alistair doesn't even need to say anything.

Except this time, the barkeep looks past his shoulder and hesitates.

With considerable effort, Alistair refocuses on the assassin. He doesn't look particularly threatening right now: he's smiling faintly, his knives sheathed, his body relaxed. But when Alistair waves his mug pointedly, the assassin shakes his head, and the barkeep imitates the gesture.

"Come along, my friend," the assassin says, prying Alistair's mug from his fist.

"Don't want to," Alistair says petulantly.

He expects a joke, but the assassin pauses, his expression turning serious. "I know," he says. "But I promise you, this is no kind of solution unless you wish to repeat it daily."

His voice is soft, but not soft enough to hide the pain under the words.

"I can tell you what will happen," he goes on. "You will wake tomorrow, and the world will be as it is now. The memories will not vanish, and the only difference will be that you can enjoy them with a sore head and a sick stomach."

It's the pain in his voice more than the words themselves that have Alistair surrendering his mug and his place at the bar. One of his arms over Zevran's shoulders, they stagger from the tavern, and up the hill. Which is much taller and steeper than Alistair remembered. _Much_ steeper.

He's panting by the time they make the top, his head spinning from drink and the lack of air. Without the assassin's support, Alistair knows he would never have made it even halfway up, and certainly not all the way back to camp.

If he had even bothered to try.

Leliana's eyes widen as they move into the firelight, but she takes Alistair's other arm without speaking and helps guide him to a seat beside the fire.

"I have the watch," Zevran tells her. "You should sleep."

Her eyes flick from Zevran to Alistair and back.

"I can keep watch over him as well." The assassin sounds amused. "I'll see him to his bed unharmed, never fear."

There's some hidden message in the words, something Alistair doesn't understand but that makes Leliana flush with embarrassment and guilt. Leliana blushing over anything is so novel that Alistair stares, entranced by the contrast between her red face and her red hair.

She murmurs something in Orlesian, and Zevran replies in the same way. Apology and acceptance by their tones, but then Leliana goes on, and Alistair can't even begin to guess what she's saying now. Zevran's response is equally a mystery.

"What?" Alistair asks, slurring only a little.

"Nothing," Zevran says, one hand stroking absently as his hair. "Sit a moment with Leliana, and then she can take her rest while you and I keep watch."

"Can't keep watch," Alistair says, waving a hand at himself and almost smacking Zevran in the knee. "Too drunk."

"Very true," Zevran says, sounding amused again. "But you can keep me company while I keep watch, yes?"

"Yes," Alistair says, more echoing the word than actually agreeing. He's dizzy and sick, and Zevran was right, the memories are still there, still eating at him. Keeping watch or keeping someone pleasant company, he's in no condition to do either.

Leliana crouches beside him, her hand steadying him when Zevran moves away and Alistair suddenly has nothing to lean against. He hadn't even realized he _was_ leaning on Zevran until that support disappeared, and he doesn't fight when Leliana pulls him gently against her shoulder. She says nothing, rocking him slowly from side to side and humming a song he doesn't know but that makes his eyes burn.

"Here we are," Zevran says, dropping down in front of them so abruptly that Alistair jumps.

"You're sneaky," Alistair accuses him, too drunk to be embarrassed by how childish that sounds, or by the tears he scrubs hastily from his eyes.

"I am indeed," Zevran says, smiling. "It is but one of my many charms. Now drink."

He's holding out a mug, full of some liquid with a pungent smell. It tastes odd, and for a moment, Alistair thinks his stomach will rebel, but in the end, he gets it all down.

"Feels weird," he says. His tongue is tingling and a little numb, and he wiggles it without opening his mouth, scraping it over the edges of his teeth as if he can scrape the feeling away.

"It will pass," Zevran says. He took Leliana's place when Alistair was distracted, and Leliana herself is already disappearing into her tent.

Alistair forces himself to sit straight, putting his hands on the ground to help judge when he's upright so that he doesn’t topple over in the other direction. Leaning against Leliana is one thing. Leaning against Zevran is something else entirely, and not because Alistair doesn't trust him.

That's too much to think about right now, so Alistair focuses on not swaying, no matter how the world spins around him.

Gradually his stomach settles, and though his head still feels stuffed with wool, it's easier to deal with that when he doesn't also want to find a convenient bush to throw up every meal he's ever eaten.

"Better?" Zevran asks after a while.

"Yes," Alistair says. After a moment, he remembers what else he's supposed to say. "Thank you."

"A favor for a friend," Zevran says, waving it away. "If I give you water, can you drink it now?"

"I think so?"

Zevran studies him carefully before claiming the mug. "Well, let us try it and see."

He picks up a waterskin that's been hidden in the shadows by his leg and refills the mug, offering it back to Alistair. His hand is wrapped almost all the way around it, and Alistair has to work hard to take it from him without allowing their fingers to touch. It's terribly important, though he couldn't say why.

So much of his attention is on what his hands are doing that he forgets to guard his tongue. The words fall out before he can stop them, though at least he whispers rather than shouts. "That could have been me."

Whispered or not, Zevran is close enough to hear. He makes a soft, acknowledging noise but says nothing, so Alistair says it again, more forcefully, "That could have been me."

"The templar," Zevran says. Not a question.

"Yes." Alistair raises the mug and is startled when he tastes water rather than ale, even though he watched Zevran fill it. "I was going to be a templar, before Duncan found me."

And oh, fuck, the last thing he needs right now is a reminder of Duncan. He doesn't want to be a maudlin drunk, weeping on the shoulder of an assassin he shouldn't trust.

"They might have sent me to Kinloch Hold," he goes on, hating the way his voice shakes. "I could have been there."

"But you weren't," Zevran says.

"But I could have been!" Why can't he understand?

Then Zevran startles him by saying, "Yes. Yes, you might have been there. Might even have been the one on your knees begging the Maker to hear you." There's a bitterness to his words Alistair doesn't understand.

Alistair feels like he's supposed to say something into the silence that follows, but the drink has made him slow and stupid.

While he's still struggling, Zevran adds, "But it was _not_ you."

"It could have been." The words are so quiet Alistair isn't even sure he said them aloud.

Zevran shifts to kneel in front of him, his hands cradling Alistair's face. "I know this means little to you now," he says, fingers digging into Alistair's cheeks, "but it was not you, and you must hold to that, you must remind yourself of it every day, every moment, because you will see worse than this before the end, and it will destroy you if you cling to might-have-beens."

He's breathing faster, his words tumbling over each other. "It was not you, and while perhaps it will be you next time, this time _it was not_. And if you cannot learn that, then that tavern is only the first of many."

Alistair stares at him, wide-eyed and startled, his mind completely blank and his heart beating too fast.

Then the moment is gone. Zevran's mouth crooks in a self-deprecating smile and he sits back on his heels, letting go of Alistair's face. He taps the rim of the mug then presses his hands to his own thighs, fingers flexing. "Drink, tesoro. Else you'll wake with a sore head tomorrow."

Alistair's hands are shaking now, but he drinks anyway, small sips one after another without ever lowering the mug.

"Think of better things," Zevran says. His voice is back to light and teasing, as if he wasn't nearly shaking Alistair moments ago. "Think of the last pretty girl you kissed, if nothing else."

It's so unexpected that Alistair swallows wrong and chokes. "What?" he gasps out between coughs.

"Or the last pretty boy," Zevran allows with a smirk.

"No," Alistair says firmly, hoping to shut the door on this particular conversation as fast as possible. It might be easier if he wasn't still coughing and trying to smother the noise so as not to bring Leliana from her tent.

"If it ended poorly, forget that for now," Zevran says with a small shrug. "Think of the good things only." His smile vanishes, and his fingers twitch on his thighs. "If there are good things to think of? Forgive me if I have brought up unpleasant memories."

Drink-addled, it takes Alistair a long moment to understand what Zevran is hinting at, and when it clicks, he blurts out in horror, "No! Nothing like that, I just..."

He trails off, trapped but unwilling to admit his lack of experience to someone like Zevran.

Admitting it turns out to be unnecessary. Zevran's head cocks to one side, oddly like the crow he names himself. "Ahhh," he says, as if everything is suddenly clear to him. "Then it seems I owe you an apology, my friend."

"For what?" Alistair asks, more confused than ever. He expected to be mocked, and not very gently. An apology doesn't even make sense. It's not Zevran's fault Alistair has never...never...

Maker save him, he doesn't even know enough to know what he doesn't know.

Zevran is still watching him, face very serious. "I would not have teased you so, had I known. I thought you merely easily embarrassed, and deliberately aloof."

"Aloof?" As explanations go, this one isn't helping.

"I have met many templars who thought themselves above the wants of their bodies," Zevran says, "and who looked down upon those who had not 'freed' themselves. It is not uncommon. I teased you so because I thought you suffered from too much arrogance rather than too little experience. And..."

He trails off, his gaze dropping, and Alistair realizes with a jolt that Zevran is embarrassed. It's as strange as seeing Leliana blush, so strange he can't help but prompt, "And...?"

That self-deprecating smile returns as Zevran meets his eyes again. "You were cruel to me," he says, "and so why should I not be cruel to you?"

Alistair's lungs freeze, his mouth working soundlessly. Since he wouldn't know what to say even if his body would cooperate, perhaps it's just as well.

Zevran laughs, his eyes going bright. "And there we are, too much honesty for one night. Again, my apologies."

"It's...fine," Alistair manages, not sure if it really is.

"Perhaps we can work toward slightly better than fine," Zevran says. He's smiling without mockery from less than a handspan away, and when did he get so close? "I am, of course, not a pretty girl, but I can promise you will not notice."

His hands on Alistair's cheeks are warm, rough with callouses but much gentler than last time. "Perhaps we might solve one problem," Zevran murmurs "and give you better things to think on."

Alistair's heart is beating so hard his stomach is turning over again. He doesn't care, because his stomach may be queasy but the rest of his body is starting to burn as Zevran leans slowly in without breaking eye contact. Alistair is aware of his breath first, then the heat of his skin, warm even before their lips meet.

The first touch leaves him breathless, and he presses forward, wanting more. He may not have kissed anyone, but he's seen others do it, and it's never looked difficult...

Zevran's hands tighten on his face, holding him back. "Slow down, tesoro." He's so close Alistair feels his breath as he speaks. "Let me show you."

It should be embarrassing that he can't even manage something so basic as a kiss, but Zevran is smiling at him. One of his thumbs traces Alistair's mouth, skin catching against skin very slightly, and when Alistair licks his lips, he tastes a faint hint of salt.

Zevran kisses him again, his lips as gentle as his thumb was a moment ago, just close enough to count as a kiss. Alistair wants to touch him, run his hands through all that long blond hair, hold Zevran's face the way he's holding Alistair's right now. He wants to kiss the tattoo on Zevran's cheek with those light, teasing kisses, trace the ink on Zevran's back with his tongue. He wants to put his mouth and his fingers everywhere Zevran will let him, because Zevran is as good as his word: Alistair doesn't care that he isn't a girl.

He wants more, but the tease becomes its own pleasure after a while, the light touch of Zevran's lips on his, the promise of what's to come hot inside him. It doesn't matter that he doesn't know what comes next; Zevran's mouth promises him more, if he's patient, if he's good. Alistair is prepared to be as patient as it takes.

Zevran's tongue flicks out, tasting the corner of his mouth, and Alistair's mouth opens involuntarily. He wants to chase that touch, imitate it so he can feel Zevran's lips with his own tongue, but he waits the way he was told, letting Zevran trace his upper lip, suck briefly on the lower one, anticipating the next move even as pleasure jolts through him now.

When Zevran's tongue at last slips into his mouth, Alistair makes a small, helpless noise. His hands clench into fists, gripping his trousers for lack of anything better--like Zevran's shirt or hair--to hang on to. Zevran gives a purring hum and presses in closer, tilting Alistair's head with gentle pressure from his hands. The kiss is forceful now, Zevran's tongue thrusting into his mouth, Alistair's lips crushed against his teeth, and still he wants more, closer, harder.

He's gasping for breath when Zevran pulls away, but he chases Zevran's mouth anyway. Zevran laughs softly and doesn't let him close the distance between them. "There," he says, ignoring the way Alistair is pushing against his hands. "Now you can say that you have kissed someone, though of course all future kisses will pale beside my own."

Alistair snorts his opinion of that, and Zevran kisses him again, his tongue pressing insistently against Alistair's lips right from the start. He's rougher this time, mouth more demanding, nipping occasionally at Alistair's lips hard enough to sting. Hungry, like he wants to devour Alistair starting with his mouth, and Alistair is more than willing to let him.

This time when they pull apart, Zevran is breathing faster, too, and another surge of heat goes through Alistair. He did that. Or rather, kissing him did that. Kissing him has left Zevran breathless, his voice rough as he says, "So tell me how it happens that a man as handsome as yourself has never been kissed."

He sounds curious rather than mocking, and Alistair says, "It just did." He stops fighting Zevran's hands and opens his eyes. Zevran is far enough away for his eyes to focus, but still close enough that it's hard for Alistair to think of anything except kissing him again. "I was with the templars a long time, and before that..."

Before that, he'd been in Eamon's house, and Isolde had always made her distaste for him plain. That feeling of being constantly under a disapproving eye didn't exactly encourage youthful exploration.

And he _really_ doesn't want to think about Isolde right now. "There just wasn't an opportunity," he says. "I didn't want to be a templar, and most of the others did, so I didn't have many friends there. And, ummm, I wanted to be friends. Want to be friends. If I'm going to kiss someone."

"I shall take that as a compliment," Zevran says.

Alistair hadn't actually intended it that way, but he feels the truth of it now the words are out. "Can we go back to kissing?" he asks, rather than think about it.

For an answer, Zevran kisses him again, more of the light, lingering kisses that tease him with possibilities. Alistair's cock is hard, painfully confined by his trousers, and he wonders what Zevran would do if he started to stroke himself. Or he could stroke Zevran instead, a thought that stabs heat through him from throat to groin.

Zevran breaks the kiss and leans back, his fingers sliding across Alistair's lips as he lets go. Alistair reaches for him, but Zevran shakes his head and says quietly, "No."

"No?"

"No," Zevran says. "Else our red-haired friend will have been right to think I wished to take advantage of you in your moment of weakness."

"She did?" Alistair asks stupidly, before the memory of that brief exchange in Orlesian comes back to him. "That's terrible!"

"Ah well," Zevran says with a casual shrug. "What can one do with bards? They do love to think up tales."

There's something hidden in that shrug and Zevran's tone, something Alistair can't fathom through the drink and the exhaustion. His cock isn't helping matters, demanding that he give up thinking and try again to get Zevran to kiss him, but he has just enough pride left to swallow down that urge.

"Here we are," Zevran says, and Alistair blinks to find him holding out the mug, freshly topped off with water. His smile is as easy as his shrug was a moment ago, as if he wasn't almost in Alistair's lap before that.

Alistair wants to ask if it was all a game or a joke, but he's afraid the answer will be yes, and he can't stand the thought. Silence rarely gets him into trouble, so he drinks and keeps quiet.

###

The next morning, his head aches a little, but no worse than it has after a particularly hard blow in a fight. Zevran makes no mention of the kiss and treats him no differently than any other morning. By the time they break camp, Alistair has to admit to himself with a pang that's equal parts embarrassment and disappointment that Zevran's motivation for kissing him was simple pity. "A favor for a friend," nothing more.

It chafes him briefly, but it's difficult to keep something so petty at the forefront of his mind when memories of Kinloch Hold are still too fresh. The others are subdued as well, and there are no jokes at all for the next several days. They walk in silence, and as they walk, Alistair does his best to ward off the memory of a templar on his knees with Zevran's words: _"It wasn't me."_ Whatever happens later, he's alive, and relatively unscathed, and he holds to it as tightly as Zevran might want.

And at night, when the darkspawn dreams merge with his memories and leave him thrashing, Zevran wakes him. Gentle fingers on his forehead, a voice calling his name until he answers: little things, never mentioned in the light of day, but precious to Alistair even if Zevran considers them of no consequence.

###

The jokes return eventually, as Kinloch Hold disappears behind them both physically and mentally. They're the same jokes as ever, but the way Zevran tells them has changed. There are little signals now, that say when he's joking and when he's not: a tilt to his eyebrows, or a glance down, or a small flick of his fingers. Alistair knows those signs are for him, doubts anyone else has even noticed, and it makes everything a joke within a joke. The others may understand things he doesn't, but now he understands a joke they don't.

Sometimes, Alistair will look up across the fire at night, and Zevran will raise his eyebrows briefly though no one has said anything, and Alistair will have to stifle a laugh if he doesn't want the others to stare at him.

The first time Zevran does that to him, Alistair punches him in the arm as soon as they're alone in their tent. "Asshole," he mutters, amused and annoyed both.

"I beg your pardon must humbly," Zevran says, sounding nothing of the sort.

He's close, his face bright with laughter, and Alistair wants badly to kiss him. He turns away instead and busies himself with getting ready for sleep, reminding himself that he doesn't even like men, not that way. Besides, the kiss meant nothing to Zevran, and Alistair won't embarrass both of them by trying to make it more.


	3. Chapter 3

The Deep Roads are like nothing Alistair has ever seen, wave after unending wave of terror and darkness. It's worse than Kinloch Hold, far worse than Ostagar, each new revelation nothing but another horror. He feels unclean in a way that has nothing to do with the dust in his hair and the blood staining his armor, and the others look like they feel the same. Even Zevran is too quiet.

It doesn't get better when they're finally done and headed back to Orzammar. If anything, it's worse, because now every darkspawn he faces reminds him of Hespith and the broodmother. He fights on anyway, sick but unwilling to give up and die.

They pause to rest a while with the Legion, and Oghren finds a cask of ale somewhere. Watching him drain mug after mug, Alistair is tempted to join him. Oblivion sounds like a blessing right now, no matter how sore it makes his head in the morning. No one would stop him, and Oghren makes it plain he would welcome company in his drinking.

What harm is there in one night of forgetfulness?

Across the fire, Zevran stands, and their eyes meet for a moment before Zevran walks away. He crawls into their tent without looking back, and Alistair knows that if he joins Oghren, Zevran won't mention it tomorrow.

He can taste the ale already, but when he gets up, he heads for the tent rather than Oghren and his cask.

Zevran says nothing, and neither does Alistair. They move around each other in silence, routines well established by now, and when Alistair lies down, he holds out a faint hope that he'll actually sleep.

He does, but the nightmares are more brutal than ever, as if his brain is punishing him for choosing to sleep rather than drink himself senseless. Hespith whispers in his ear, close as the lover he's never had, and his arms are weak when he tries to push her away, until a hand closes on his shoulder and a voice says his name like it's an order.

He comes awake with a gasp, grabbing for anything to remind himself where and when he is. That happens to be Zevran's hand and shirt, and Alistair doesn't care how pathetic he looks as he clings to both.

"Shhhh," Zevran whispers. His free hand combs through Alistair's sweat-damp hair. "Shhhh, tesoro."

"Just a dream," Alistair mumbles into his chest without letting go.

Zevran laughs, but he doesn't sound amused. "'Just' a dream? Is there such a thing?"

Alistair isn't sure he understands the words. What he does understand is that Zevran isn't pulling away, isn't trying to put distance between them, and that's the only thing that matters now. He lets himself sink into the steady rhythm of Zevran's hand in his hair, matching his own breathing to Zevran's until he feels calm again.

With the calm comes embarrassment, and at last he pulls away, scrubbing his hands over his face and glad of the darkness that hides his blush. "Sorry," he says, vaguely in Zevran's direction. "I'm fine, I didn't mean to wake you." Clutching at Zevran is a hundred times worse than needing to be woken by him in the first place.

Zevran moves away without answering, and Alistair bites his tongue. If clutching at him like a child is worse than having the nightmares at all, then begging him to come back is the worst possible. Better to wrap his arms around his own chest and sit huddled on his bedroll than admit he wants an Antivan Crow to pet his hair for the rest of the night.

At first, it's hard to figure out what Zevran is doing: there's an irritated grunt and a series of rustling noises that sound nothing like someone going back to sleep. Even when something makes a soft woomph beside him, it isn't until Zevran lies down that Alistair realizes he's dragged his bedroll across the tent so they're side by side.

If he wasn't a coward, he would protest, but the thought of going back to sleep alone is too terrifying. He'll swallow his pride if it means having someone close enough to touch. Maybe that will keep Hespith from his dreams. Now all he has to do is convince himself to lie down.

The touch on his head makes him gasp, and in that moment of confusion, Zevran pulls him sideways. His head thumps down on Zevran's chest hard enough to pull a small noise of protest from both of them, but Zevran's hand slides through his hair, holding him firmly in place despite that.

Alistair's face is burning again, not least because he wants to wrap both arms and both legs around Zevran. He settles for sliding closer and putting an arm gingerly around his waist.

"Tell me about the templars," Zevran says out of the darkness. "Tell me what you loved best about being one of them."

That's easy. "Fighting," Alistair says. He's too tired, and wound too tight, to think of an answer less likely to make someone flinch away, but he imagines an assassin won't think less of him for what is, after all, the truth.

"Yes," Zevran says thoughtfully. "There was more to Crow training than learning to wield a knife, but that was perhaps the part I loved most." His fingernails scratch idly at Alistair's scalp. "There is joy in it, yes? In testing your body, finding its limits and then moving past those as well. A kind of pleasure in the pain."

It's the first time Alistair has ever heard him say "pleasure" without a smirk behind it. In fact, it's the first time Alistair has known him to be serious for longer than a passing moment. He's not sure what to make of that, so he doesn't say anything as he turns into Zevran, settling his head in the hollow of Zevran's shoulder.

The fingers in his hair still for half a breath before they begin to move against his scalp once again, rubbing in soothing circles. "Tell me about the templars."

So Alistair does. Nothing so coherent as a story, merely disconnected ramblings as thoughts work their way to the surface of his exhausted mind. He's surprised by how much of what surfaces is good. He'd lost track of the happier memories under the weight of that last year: his vows bearing down on him, everyone pushing him toward the final step that would tie him irrevocably to a path he didn't want.

Alistair runs out of words eventually. He feels drained, light-headed from lack of sleep and the memory he can't quite shake, of Hespith's voice whispering through the darkness. Her song is still waiting to grab him, but Zevran is also still here, warm against him.

"Tell me about the Crows," Alistair says at last, his voice hoarse from talking most of the night.

Zevran doesn't tense, but his heart is right under Alistair's ear, and it begins to beat faster. Despite that, Zevran's voice is cheerful when he says, "Not tonight, tesoro." One hand plays idly with Alistair's hair while the other smooths down his back, pulling him in a little closer. "Not tonight."

###

Even once they return to the surface, the Deep Roads haunt his dreams, darkspawn clawing at him as Branka rants and Hespith croons her little song that Alistair would dearly love to wipe from his memory completely. He wakes night after night, and he doesn't protest when Zevran lies beside him and whispers to him in Antivan to drown out her voice.

After one particularly bad dream, he curls himself around Zevran without shame, almost gagging on the memory of darkspawn blood filling his mouth. Not even thinking, only wanting to remind himself that this is real, he slides his hand under Zevran's shirt, seeking skin, stroking his palm up Zevran's ribs.

Zevran twitches violently, and Alistair stills his hand. "Sorry," he mumbles into Zevran's chest. "Did it tickle?"

"No," Zevran says, the word clipped short. He doesn't pull away, though, and when Alistair tentatively moves his hand around to rest between his shoulder blades, Zevran doesn't flinch, only strokes Alistair's hair very gently.

###

It becomes another thing they don't talk about in daylight, but somehow, every night after that their bedrolls end up side-by-side rather than hard against the opposite walls of the tent. Even when they sleep without touching, there's comfort in knowing someone else is nearby, that he only has to stretch out his arm to find Zevran's hand in the darkness.

Sleeping so close, Alistair learns he isn't the only one plagued by nightmares; Zevran is simply better at masking the signs. The first time it happens, Alistair wakes disoriented, unsure what disturbed him. He almost rolls over and goes back to sleep before he realizes that each inhale and exhale from the bedroll beside him is too long, too carefully measured.

"Zev?" he asks, still half asleep.

"Yes, tesoro?" His tone is mostly right, but only mostly.

Alistair hesitates, unsure what to say now. How does he offer comfort to someone who would deny the need for it? This isn't a role he knows how to play; it's much easier to accept Zevran's comfort than to give it himself, especially when Zevran makes it easy for him, offering so he doesn't have to ask.

Oh.

Without speaking, Alistair slides close enough to rest his head on Zevran's chest. The heart under his ear is pounding so hard Alistair can actually feel it against his cheek, and he wraps his arm tightly around Zevran's waist. It feels odd to try to offer comfort from this position, especially when Zevran threads careful fingers through his hair, but Alistair suspects any more blatant offer would be rejected outright.

It's a long time before Zevran's heartbeat slows, and he doesn't let go of Alistair until dawn.

###

When they emerge from the Frostbacks, Brosca is kind enough to let them take rooms at the first inn that's large enough to hold the entire party. Alistair has been through too many places by now to bother remembering the names of each, but he feels a certain fondness for this one. It doesn't matter that his fondness has more to do with the nearly sensual pleasures of a real bath and a real bed than with any particular virtue of the place itself.

They stay three nights, repairing their equipment and re-provisioning after the walk from Orzammar. The first night, only Oghren is willing to sacrifice sleep in favor of time in the common room, but the second night, they all join him, crowding around a single table together. It's like Alistair's best days as a recruit, the lot of them shouting each other down and stealing each other's food and laughing at jokes no one else in the room understands. He only allows himself one mug of ale, but he eats whatever's put in front of him, reveling in food that isn't dried meat tougher than his boot soles or stew made from boiling that meat with horse feed.

He's on his third bowl of _real_ stew when Zevran kicks his ankle under the table.

"Ow," Alistair mutters without heat, glancing sideways at him. Oghren is busy worshipping the tavern's beer, and the others are watching Leliana and Brosca try to cheat each other at cards, leaving Alistair and Zevran in a temporary bubble of quiet. Or at least, what had been quiet until Zevran decided to kick him for no apparent reason.

Zevran widens his eyes and glances deliberately to one side, his meaning clear. Alistair follows the line of his gaze to find one of the servers watching him. When his eyes meet hers, she smiles, and he flushes, looking hastily back down at his food.

Before he can decide what to do, she's crossing the common room to stand at his elbow, closer than strictly polite. Her breasts are just brushing his shoulder, and her smile is sweet rather than predatory, but Alistair ignores both and shakes his head when she asks if there's anything else he wants.

As soon as she's gone, Zevran gives his ankle a second, harder kick, and this time, there's a little irritation in Alistair's voice when he says, "What?"

"I do not believe she is the type of woman to appreciate coyness," Zevran says. "She appears to be a bit more...direct."

"Well, then the two of you should get along great," Alistair says, growing more irritated without understanding why.

Zevran rolls his eyes so hard his entire body is involved. "Her interest is in you, tesoro, not me."

Alistair's flush deepens. "I know," he mutters. "I'm not stupid, I can tell when someone's interested in me."

The silence from beside him is complete, no matter how noisy the rest of the tavern is, and Alistair turns just enough to see Zevran's face. He's wearing the oddest expression, but after a moment, Alistair decides he's trying not to laugh.

"I can!" Alistair insists.

"Of course," Zevran says. He picks up his mug to take a long drink, and Alistair would swear it's to hide his face, though he can't say why he thinks that.

Before he can work it out, Zevran lowers his mug and asks, "Is she not to your taste, then? You certainly appear to be to hers."

Alistair glances in the direction the woman went and finds her looking back at him, her smile undimmed. He looks away again, determined this time to keep his eyes on his food. "I'm not interested," he mutters.

Zevran makes an agreeable noise, but rather than let it go, he asks, "If she does not appeal to you, then what sort of woman would?"

The blush is returning, creeping across his cheeks. "I don't see why it matters."

"Because the road has been long, and kissing a pretty girl is a good way to forget for a while." Zevran is smirking; Alistair can see it from the corner of his eye. "And as you lack experience, I wish to lend you mine, at least so far as _finding_ someone to kiss."

"I think she wants to do more than kiss," Alistair says, darting another quick glance at the server.

She's on the other side of the bar now, leaning on it with her arms folded under her breasts to put them on display. Her shirt is open over her bodice, and for a moment, Alistair thinks about licking the curves of skin showing there, unlacing her dress so he can cup her breasts in his hands. He's not entirely sure what that would feel like, but he remembers the softness of them against his arm and he imagines them filling his hands as he kisses her.

Thoughts of kissing lead him back to Zevran, though, and that memory is far more interesting than some vague fantasy. Which is embarrassing, and not anything Alistair is interested in sharing.

"Would it be so bad," Zevran asks, "if she wanted more than kissing?"

"Yes!" Alistair says, too loud and too honest. His face is on fire, and he keeps his eyes on his supper as he explains, "I'll just make a fool of myself, when she realizes I don't know anything, and I don't really want to be laughed at."

"Why would she laugh?" He sounds puzzled, which only irritates Alistair more.

"Because I don't know anything," he says, low and fierce. "I'm old enough she'll expect me to know something, and when I don't, she'll either mock me or be disappointed, and I don't want either!"

"If your age is the problem, it will only get worse," Zevran points out. "And as she looks the friendly sort, I doubt she would laugh. Perhaps she would even enjoy the opportunity to show you new and interesting things."

Alistair makes a skeptical noise and puts a bite of stew in his mouth to save himself the trouble of answering.

"You may be surprised, tesoro," Zevran says. "There is a certain pleasure in showing someone-"

"All right," Alistair interrupts, desperate to stop him from providing any details. "Fine. Maybe she would enjoy it. But you don't know that, and I'm the one who'd get laughed at if you're wrong. Now can we talk about something else?"

"As you wish," Zevran says. He tilts his head at Leliana and Brosca. "Would you care to wager on our friends there?"

Alistair snorts, glad to be back on familiar ground. "I'm not stupid enough to bet you about anything." Not anymore, at least.

"You wound me," Zevran says, hand to his chest. "I will even allow you to choose where to place your money."

"Still no," Alistair says, scraping the bottom of his bowl to get the last of his stew. He wants more, but not enough to brave the server again.

Or rather, not enough to brave his own puzzlement over his reaction to her. All his words to Zevran aside, the thing that's stopping him is that he'd rather sit here talking with Zevran than find out what she might have to show him. Which is utterly ridiculous.

Utterly ridiculous or not, that's exactly how he passes the rest of his evening, sitting beside Zevran on the bench, talking and idly watching Leliana and Brosca. He laughs, and occasionally blushes, and doesn't think about his lack of experience--or possible remedies for it--at all.

But alone in his room that night, he does think about it, so much he can't sleep. It's also not the serving woman, pretty as she was, who fills his thoughts. He thinks of Zevran instead, of kissing him in the firelight beside Lake Calenhad, of what it would feel like to do more than kiss. The thought of Zevran naked against him has Alistair reaching under the blankets to stroke himself, and it's definitely not a female face he imagines in the last moment before he spills into his own hand.

Afterward, he can't sleep, drained but oddly restless. Embarrassed, too, and it's the embarrassment that keeps him awake long into the night, refusing to admit what he wants.

The need for sleep wears down that embarrassment eventually, and he pads quietly across the hall to Zevran's room. When he slips inside, Zevran's voice asks sympathetically from the darkness, "A nightmare?"

Alistair hesitates, then lies. "Yes."

There's a rustling noise, and Alistair knows Zevran is pulling back the blankets. "Then come to bed. It will be better in the morning."

###

As they circle Lake Calenhad, the nightmares ease off for real, and Alistair thinks about moving his bedroll away from Zevran's. They've only slept so close because of his nightmares, and now that he doesn't need the comfort, he shouldn't take advantage of Zevran's friendship. Every night he tells himself to move away, to give Zevran a little space, and every night he does nothing of the sort. When he feels guilty about it, he reminds himself that Zevran has nightmares of his own. It's easier to know to wake him if he's close enough to touch. After all the comfort Zevran has given him, isn't it right to give something back?

And besides, just because Alistair doesn't need that closeness doesn't mean he doesn't want it. On the nights when they lie curled together, Alistair lets his hand slide under Zevran's shirt until the movement is as natural as turning to Zevran in the first place. He maps out the curve of Zevran's spine and the edges of his shoulder blades and the arc of his ribs. He learns the way the muscles move as Zevran shifts to stroke his hair, and he learns the ridges of every scar.

Some nights, he wants to map that same terrain with his mouth, to learn what Zevran's skin tastes like. He wants to learn all the things hinted at in Zevran's jokes, and he wants to practice them on Zevran's body, have Zevran show him with his own body.

But Zevran's kiss was a joke, a favor for a friend, and Alistair won't risk that friendship. He wants more, but he wants _this_ even more.

###

Three days out from Redcliffe, Zevran wakes from one of his infrequent nightmares. This one grips him harder than usual, and he catches Alistair a solid punch to the face before he wakes completely.

He apologizes at least half a dozen times, but it's the shaking in his voice that hurts Alistair, far more than the bruise that's already beginning to swell his eye shut.

"It's fine," Alistair tells him, again and again. About the time he thinks the words have finally sunk in, he accidentally starts the process all over again by searching through his bag for a bit of elfroot salve. There's no subtle way to do that, and Zevran apologizes yet again as he takes the salve away to dab it on Alistair's cheek.

"Zevran," Alistair says at last, making his voice as firm as he can. "Stop. _It's fine._ "

He doesn't wait for an argument, just gets them both lying down again, his head on Zevran's chest. "It's fine," he whispers, his hand slipping under the hem of Zevran's shirt to rest on his stomach.

Zevran's breathing stutters, then evens out again, so tightly controlled he might as well be sobbing. For a long time, Alistair listens to those careful breaths and waits for Zevran to calm down, the way he always does.

Not tonight, though. His breathing stays steady, but it's not a natural rhythm, and his heartbeat is too fast.

Alistair has never pried into Zevran's past, but now he wonders if it would help to talk about it. "Tell me about the Crows?"

Zevran laughs softly. "Not tonight, tesoro." His heart thuds heavily in Alistair's ear, at odds with his cheerful tone.

"Sorry," Alistair says. "I didn't mean-"

" _You_ have nothing to be sorry for, tesoro." He combs his fingers through Alistair's hair. "Nothing at all."

There's no way to know from his tone if Zevran means that the Crow masters have things to be sorry for, or whether Zevran himself is sorry for something.

But tonight isn't the night to ask. Alistair turns them both onto their sides facing each other, wraps his arm tight around Zevran, and tries to sleep.

###

Redcliffe is its own horror, if a more private one. The way the Deep Roads tore at Brosca, Alistair is torn by seeing his home overrun with undead. Whatever the circumstances in which he left, this is more his home than anywhere he might have slept while with the templars. Worse, the fighting brings back memories of Kinloch Hold to torment him, long hallways full of blood and corpses.

That night in his dreams, a templar begs for the Maker's mercy while Hespith explains in her dead voice how little mercy there is to be had. Alistair struggles to wake and can't, alone in the room Isolde provided for him, occasionally surfacing long enough to know he's dreaming without being able to wake completely.

He neither knows nor cares what time it is when the nightmares at last release him. The only thing that matters is that Zevran is close, a few doors down on the opposite side of the corridor. When he slips into the room, Zevran says nothing as he holds up the blankets to let Alistair slide between them.

"You were right," Alistair murmurs as he presses closer to Zevran.

"I am always right," Zevran says into his hair. "You should know this by now, tesoro. But what, in particular, am I right about this time?"

"After Kinloch Hold, you said I would see worse. And I didn't believe you."

"Ah," Zevran says. A pause, no longer than a breath. "I wish I had been wrong."

"Me, too," Alistair says.

Zevran laughs softly and wraps an arm tighter around him. "I will try to be wrong more often," he says. "As a favor for a friend."

###

After Kinloch Hold and the Deep Roads and Redcliffe, Alistair is dreading what they might find in Haven, but it's easier than he expects. The cultists don't crawl under his skin and into his head the way Hespith did, and he finds it easier to remember Zevran's words, to remind himself that whatever horrors he sees, he doesn't have to pick away at all the maybes and might-have-beens. He can mourn for the dead without letting them destroy him.

Even the Guardian's question doesn't bother him long. Ferelden _would_ be better off if Alistair had died in Duncan's place at Ostagar, but there's no changing that path now. Duncan is dead, and Alistair is not, and perhaps he isn't doing too poorly by his country after all.

Alistair is more taken aback by Zevran's reaction, by the harsh note in his voice as he cuts short the Guardian's question for him. Zevran is angry so rarely, and quick to deflect with humor or innuendo rather than allow anyone to see they might have struck their mark. That humor is nowhere to be seen now: he stalks through the gauntlet in silence, speaking only when spoken to.

Even having the ashes in hand can't distract Alistair completely, and he watches Zevran covertly as they camp just outside Haven's gates. Brosca watches him, too, frowning in concern, but all attempts to draw him out are cut short.

That silence leaves Alistair all the more surprised when Zevran turns on him the second they're alone in their tent. "Is it true, what you told the Guardian?" he demands.

The only light is the glow from the fire, filtered through the canvas walls of the tent. It's enough to see Zevran's outline, nothing more.

"Yes," Alistair says slowly, confused.

Zevran mutters something in Antivan, low and bitter, then adds venomously, "Idiot boy."

"I...what?"

"Idiot. Boy." Each word is precise and careful, knives meant to cut.

They might be more effective if Alistair hadn't seen the horror on his face as the Guardian asked his questions.

Alistair takes a deep breath and finishes unbuckling his armor, setting the breastplate carefully aside. The gambeson follows, reeking of metal and old sweat, leaving him in nothing but shirt and trousers, wishing mightily for a bath. He focuses on such small, mundane things until he's calm again, and then he lies down as if this night is no different from any other.

Zevran is still crouched by the door, still in his armor. Leather creaks repeatedly, and Alistair can picture him curling and uncurling his fists.

"I meant it," Alistair says when it becomes clear Zevran isn't going to move, "and it's true. If Duncan had lived instead of me, the Blight would probably be over by now."

There's another stream of Antivan, longer but just as venomous. Alistair waits it out, glad he doesn't understand so much as a word. All his attempts to stay calm likely wouldn't hold if he knew exactly what Zevran was saying, but as it is, the language itself is rather pretty.

When Zevran winds down at last, Alistair goes on as if he hadn't spoken. "But Duncan is dead, and I'm not, and I'm doing my best to honor his memory. Aren't you the one who told me I can't think too much about what might have been?"

The silence inside the tent is complete for a long time, unbroken by so much as a creak of armor or a single breath.

"Yes," Zevran whispers at last. "Yes, tesoro, those are indeed my words."

He sounds tired and small, in a way Alistair has never heard him. Bleeding on the ground, bargaining for his life with Brosca, he didn't sound this broken.

"Do you want to sleep?" Alistair ventures. "That might help?"

"Unlikely," Zevran says, but he takes off his armor and lies down beside Alistair, not touching him.

Alistair stays awake, waiting, and he isn't surprised when the nightmares come. He's quick to reach out, to touch Zevran's arm as soon as his breathing shifts, and equally quick to dodge backward when Zevran tries to hit him.

"Zev," he murmurs.

Zevran collapses back to his bedroll, his hands covering his face. "My apologies," he says, voice muffled by his palms. "I...quite forgot where I was."

There are a lot of things Alistair could say to that, but he stays quiet and simply lies down again, resting his head on Zevran's shoulder. After a while, one of Zevran's hands drops down to stroke his hair, and neither of them mentions the unsteady rise and fall of Zevran's chest.

###

The next night, Alistair curls close around Zevran as soon as they lie down. His hand marks its usual path down Zevran's ribs, stroking over the scars he knows better than he knows his own.

"Tell me about the Crows," he says.

And Zevran does.

Later, Alistair is a little sorry he asked, but not at all sorry that Zevran told him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end of the plot-like portions of today's activities. :) Chapter 4 is almost entirely smut, if you'd like to avoid same.


	4. Chapter 4

When they return to Redcliffe with the ashes, Isolde is gracious to him for perhaps the first time in his life, grateful for her husband's life, and her son's. It's odd and unsettling, and Alistair is quick to retreat from it, no matter how glad he is to see Eamon recovering.

The last time they were here, he allowed Isolde to assign each of them their own rooms because it didn't occur to him to do otherwise. This time--after the first bath he's had in weeks and the most awkward dinner he's had in years--he follows Zevran to his room, not caring that Brosca's eyebrows climb sharply and that Leliana blinks at him in surprise. What does it matter what they think?

As he climbs into bed, Zevran says casually, "They will think us lovers, you know."

"So?" Alistair asks, searching him out in the darkness. Then a thought occurs to him, and he hesitates. "Unless it bothers you?"

Zevran snorts out a laugh. "No, tesoro, it bothers me not at all." He tugs Alistair closer, pulling his head down to rest on his shoulder. "I was only concerned for your sterling reputation. Mine is sufficiently tarnished that being thought your lover could only improve it."

"Besides," Alistair says, draping an arm across Zevran's chest, "anyone who thinks it is an idiot."

"How so?" Zevran asks, his fingers moving idly through Alistair's hair.

Incredulous, Alistair blinks into the darkness, groping for the words to explain something so obvious. "Because...because I don't know anything, and you want someone who knows as much as you do."

"Do I?" Zevran murmurs. His hand comes to a stop, cupping Alistair's cheek, thumb resting just in front of his ear. " _Is_ that what I want?"

His tone is hard to interpret, but Alistair eventually decides that he's joking. "Well," he teases, blushing a little, "maybe not someone who knows as much as you, since you probably think that's impossible. But definitely somebody who knows _something_. Which would be anybody except me."

When Zevran doesn't answer, Alistair adds, exasperated, "I know it's true, you won't hurt my feelings by agreeing."

Zevran hums acknowledgement, his thumb brushing over the curve of Alistair's ear, down and back up. "Is it a given, then, that I want nothing more than a skilled pair of hands and a talented mouth?"

Alistair's heart begins to beat faster. He could let the conversation go, say nothing and risk nothing, but he feels reckless all of a sudden. They leave for Denerim soon enough, with three armies behind them. Whatever happens at the Landsmeet, Ferelden is no longer a lost cause.

He's helped do a dozen impossible things in the last year. It isn't too much to hope he might manage another.

"Before," he says, then starts over. "After Kinloch Hold." The darkness has weight, pressing down on him, and he hesitates. If he doesn't ask, then he doesn't have to know.

He'd rather know.

All in a rush, he asks, "Why did you kiss me? Was it just a joke?"

Under Alistair's cheek, Zevran's heart is racing. He takes a breath like he might speak, but then says nothing.

"It was, wasn't it?" Alistair asks. He knows the answer is yes, but he forges on anyway, daring to hope he isn't mis-reading everything. "Would it still be one if you kissed me now?"

Zevran swallows. "I would not wish to presume such a thing would be welcome."

There's that same feeling from the night beside Lake Calenhad, his heart beating so fast he's almost ill even as his skin tingles with a far more pleasant feeling. "You could, you know," Alistair says. His mouth is dry, his palms damp. "Presume."

The silence that follows seems to go on for days. When Zevran speaks at last, it's in a whisper. "Could I?" he asks. "And what could I presume?"

Alistair considers trying to find the words to say any of what's in his head and decides he's not interested in that level of embarrassment tonight. Easier to roll over onto his back, taking Zevran with him so they're chest to chest. It leaves his hands free to cup Zevran's face gently, exactly the way he held Alistair's all those months ago, to pull his head down and kiss him very carefully.

It's difficult to imitate what Zevran did before, not when it's been so long and Alistair's entire body wants to rush ahead to Zevran naked under his hands and his mouth. He forces himself to go slowly despite that, to treat this like a parry learned on the practice field. Remember what he was shown--he's certainly thought about it enough--and turn his body the same way. Head, thus. Hands, here. Mouth, so. No movement at all until he knows he has the form correct, and even then, each move slow and deliberate, tested against his memory of how it should be before trying the next.

It ceases to be an exercise when Zevran's mouth opens against his, wiping away all thoughts of anything except this. Alistair tries to keep track of what he's doing, knowing he isn't as good as Zevran, except it's impossible to think with Zevran's hand squeezing the back of his neck and Zevran's tongue thrusting against his, and the kiss is turning messy, but Zevran isn't pulling away, he's pressing closer, and Alistair wonders dizzily if they could stay like this all night.

Apparently not, because Zevran breaks the kiss and rests his forehead against Alistair's. He's breathing hard, and his voice isn't quite steady as he says, "You must tell me how much I can presume."

Alistair's words got lost somewhere around the time Zevran's mouth met his, and now he has to scramble after them.

While he's doing that, Zevran adds in a low voice, "Else I will presume rather a lot."

That doesn't help Alistair _at all_. His words scatter again, his body hot with need. "Please," he whispers.

Zevran mutters something in Antivan that sounds like a curse, his forehead pressing painfully hard against Alistair's. "Tesoro," he says in the voice of someone holding desperately to control. "Tell me what you want."

"You," Alistair answers instantly.

"Ah," Zevran says, his smile clearly audible. "Very sweet, but not exactly helpful."

"What do _you_ want?" Alistair asks.

Zevran starts to laugh as he admits, "You." He touches Alistair's cheek, stroking along his jaw and over his lips. "I know a hundred ways to make a man beg for release, and I have thought of doing every one of them to you."

His fingers drag over Alistair's lips again, and this time, Alistair licks them on the way by. Zevran swears softly, his first two fingers easing a little way into Alistair's mouth, and Alistair licks them again, entranced by the way Zevran's breath catches. He never thought fingers were any more interesting than throats, but they're quite fascinating now. It makes him curious to see what would happen if he did to Zevran's throat what he's currently doing to his fingers.

"Tesoro," Zevran says. He takes his fingers back, much to Alistair's disappointment. "Please. Tell me what you want, before I go too far."

"I don't know!" Alistair says. "I've never done...this. Anything. But I want you. I want you to touch me. I want to touch _you_."

"You touch me all the time," Zevran says. "You touch me, and do you even know how many times I have thought of your hands? You touch me, and I want you, and you never know how hard I am, do you?"

As if to demonstrate, he shoves one of his knees between Alistair's so that he's straddling his thigh, hips arching down, and oh, Maker, his cock is hard even through two layers of cloth, and everything else disappears under a rush of _want_.

Zevran's mouth is on his again, hungry the way Alistair remembers from so many months ago. Only this time, instead of a false promise of more, he has Zevran on top of him, hands on his face to keep control of the kiss while he drives his cock down against Alistair's hip. His hair is warm, and he makes an appreciative noise when Alistair runs his hands through it, leaning away just long enough to get rid of their shirts before pressing in close again.

His mouth is against Alistair's neck this time, his breath hot as he bites and licks, and it turns out throats are much more interesting than Alistair thought. A small part of him tries to keep track of what's happening, to remember it for later, but most of him is too busy panicking over how close he is to the edge. They're both still half dressed, and he's sure he isn't supposed to finish before he's even naked.

Attempts to think about less arousing things fall apart when Zevran kisses his way down his chest, and Alistair's heart stutters. Is he really going to...?

Yes, though not directly, not at first. He mouths at Alistair's cock through his trousers, breathing warm, moist air through the fabric, and Alistair's hips try to rise off the mattress. Zevran pins him effortlessly and tugs at his laces, and Alistair wants to say something but he's too busy gasping for air. Then Zevran's fingers are around his cock, stroking up as his mouth closes around the head, and Alistair has time for one strangled, "Zev-!" before it's too late.

Embarrassment hits him while his head is still spinning, and he puts both hands over his face. "Sorry," he gasps out, not yet back in full control of his mouth.

"For what, tesoro?" Zevran asks, sounding amused. "Did you think all that talk of my skills was nothing but empty air?" He kisses the inside of Alistair's thigh, lingering a moment to suck gently on the skin. "Am I not, in fact, as good as I have said I am?"

Alistair is still embarrassed, but he laughs a little, recognizing what Zevran is doing: giving him a reason for losing control, an excuse besides a complete lack of experience. "You don't need me to tell you that."

"Ah, but no one ever tires of hearing their lover praise them," Zevran says, teasing.

Maybe someone with more experience would have something poetic to say. All Alistair can do is stroke Zevran's cheek in the darkness and whisper with absolute sincerity, "You're amazing."

Zevran doesn't say anything, but he turns his face into Alistair's hand, and Alistair can feel his smile.

After a while, Alistair asks tentatively, "What about you? Do you...ummm...?" He doesn't have any idea how to finish that sentence, so he starts over. "What do you want?"

"So many things, tesoro," Zevran says. "So many things. But let us start with a simple one."

His weight disappears, the bed creaking as he gets up, and Alistair blinks in surprise. "Zev?"

"A moment only, I promise," Zevran says. He's just visible in the dim light as he kneels by the fireplace to blow ash from the coals. When they're glowing hot, he lays another log across them, waiting until the fire flares up and the room is suddenly bathed in light.

"Are you cold?' Alistair asks, pushing himself up to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Not in the least," Zevran says, rising to his feet. He turns back toward Alistair and steps to the side so he's no longer backlit, giving Alistair a perfect view as he lets his trousers drop to the floor. "It's the light I want, so I can see you."

Alistair swallows, unable to speak though he's in complete agreement. He's seen Zevran's body before, but furtive glances while they're bathing are nothing like this. Now he's allowed to look, to admire every inch of Zevran in the warm glow of the fire without the need to pretend he's doing anything else. Now he can follow each tattoo with his eyes, admire the way they accentuate the muscles in Zevran's thighs and the arc of his hip bones and the curve of his ribs.

Now he can let his gaze linger on Zevran's cock, hard between his legs as he crosses the room, back toward the bed and Alistair.

Each step Zevran takes is slow and measured, and Alistair knows it's for his benefit, giving him plenty of time to look as Zevran crosses the room. It's almost overwhelming, all the possibilities open to him, and when Zevran is standing between his knees, Alistair can't do anything but stare for a moment.

Zevran's hands, pressing gently on his shoulders, bring him back to himself, enough that he resists the attempt to push him back onto the bed. He wraps his hand around Zevran's cock instead, stroking carefully, afraid to do something wrong but wanting so badly to touch.

The hands on his shoulders tense, fingers digging in, and Alistair looks up to check Zevran's face, worried he's done something wrong. Zevran is smiling, though, and his hands stroke over Alistair's shoulders and up his neck to cup his face, tilting his head back for a kiss. It's an open-mouthed kiss, Zevran's tongue nearly fucking his mouth, and Alistair loses track of what his hand is doing.

Zevran pulls away from the kiss abruptly, his hand dropping to Alistair's wrist, and Alistair realizes he's squeezing Zevran's cock in his fist.

"I'm sorry!" he gasps out, jerking his hand back. Half the blood in his cock rushes up to make his face flush painfully hot, and his shoulders hunch involuntarily. What sort of idiot can't even manage something this simple? "Sorry!"

"Shhhh," Zevran says, stroking his cheek.

Embarrassed, Alistair tries to duck his head away, but Zevran doesn't let him, catching his face in both hands to force his head up. No kiss this time, just Zevran studying him with a faint smile. Alistair looks away, knowing his face must give away everything he's thinking.

"Alistair." Zevran strokes a thumb over his lips and waits until Alistair meets his eyes. "Do not take this badly, tesoro, but I know that you know very little." A quick kiss to take the sting from the words. "I think no less of you for it. How can you know what you were never taught?"

"I want to get it right," Alistair says, his face still flaming.

"And did you get it right the first time you picked up a sword?" Zevran smiles and doesn't wait for the answer they both know. "This is no different."

"I hope it's a little different," Alistair says, trying to joke. "Eamon's swordmaster liked to yell at me when I got it wrong. And make me run laps around the keep."

Zevran laughs softly. "I promise, there will be no yelling. Or running of laps, unless such things excite you." His thumb strokes over Alistair's lips again. "And if they do, then there is no shame in it."

" _Do_ people find that exciting?" Alistair asks, distracted from his embarrassment.

"That and more." Zevran leans down to kiss him lightly. "So you see? There is nothing you can try that will send me screaming from the room."

"What about laughing?" Alistair mutters.

"Not that, either." He combs the fingers of one hand through Alistair's hair, keeping the other hand cupped around his cheek. "Or rather, I promise not to laugh _at_ you, though I may laugh. If we are not having fun, what would be the point? This need not all be so serious."

It's always seemed very serious from the few hints Alistair has gotten over the years, but he can hear the laugh in Zevran's voice, and he has to admit, being here with Zevran makes him want to smile when he isn't worrying about making a mistake.

Worrying becomes less important when Zevran straddles his lap and wraps an arm around his neck. His lips trail over Alistair's ear, and his free hand guides Alistair's to his cock.

"Like this, tesoro," he whispers. "Let me show you."

His cock has softened a little, and Alistair feels another flash of embarrassment, remembering why. Zevran doesn't give him time to think about it, his hand curled around Alistair's already stroking and squeezing gently.

That it's someone else's cock is new, but Alistair has stroked himself often enough to regain his confidence quickly. Zevran murmuring instructions and encouragement in his ear certainly doesn't hurt, and the feel of his cock growing harder is enough to leave Alistair breathless, the way it grows longer and thicker between his fingers. He gets lost in the rhythm of it, slow firm strokes along the entire length, working the head with Zevran's hand on his to show him how tightly he can squeeze, how fast he should move. Zevran's hips rock in time with his strokes, ass rubbing over Alistair's cock until he's hard again, wanting more without knowing how to ask.

"You said," he begins in a hoarse whisper, then has to stop, words forgotten, when Zevran bites gently at his earlobe.

"What did I say?" Zevran prompts, lips moving against Alistair's ear in a way that does nothing to help him gather his wits.

"Ummm," is the best he can manage for a painful moment, and even when he can think of words again, he can't think of anything eloquent. "You said...you said you were going to presume a lot, and...ummm...you haven't. Presumed. Really. Very much."

Zevran is laughing in his ear, delighted rather than mocking. "My apologies, tesoro, I was not aware I was failing you so terribly." He kisses Alistair's jaw, right in front of his ear, very gently. "And what shall I presume, then?" Another kiss, in the center of his cheek this time, as soft as the first.

"Anything," Alistair says. "Everything."

"Perhaps not all at once," Zevran says, kissing the corner of his mouth, still smiling. "We must have a starting point." On the next kiss, his tongue slips out to taste Alistair's bottom lip, but he pulls away when Alistair tries to deepen the kiss. "Oh no, tesoro, certain decisions must be made first."

"You're laughing at me," Alistair says, not serious.

"I am _laughing_ ," Zevran corrects, kissing him again. "Very different." His lips brush against Alistair's as he talks, so distracting Alistair doesn't even bother trying to come up with a response. "Shall I suck your cock again? So soft and slow, until you weep."

Alistair chokes on an answer, dizzy and achingly hard.

"Or shall I ride you, just like this?" He pauses for another kiss, his hand in Alistair's hair. "Fuck myself on your cock while you stroke me?"

It's certainly a riveting image, but Alistair is too aware of how fast it would be over, and the thought of losing control again is mortifying. "I don't-" He swallows, trying to hear himself over the blood pounding in his ears. "I don't want...or maybe...I mean...next time?"

"Or never," Zevran says easily. He rolls his hips, rubbing his ass against Alistair's cock and then thrusting his own up into Alistair's fist. "How long could you last, just like this?"

"Maker," Alistair breathes, a prayer for control rather than a curse. At least the way Zevran moves distracts him from his embarrassment long enough to spit out a full sentence, albeit a short one. "That's the problem."

"What is?" Zevran asks. His hips are still moving in a slow, steady rhythm, making it nearly impossible for Alistair to think.

"I wouldn't last!" he blurts out. "If I fucked you."

"Ahhh," Zevran says. "Don't let that concern you, tesoro."

"I can't!" Alistair says. "Or...it does." He's gotten too tangled up in his embarrassment and the feel of Zevran's ass against his cock, not to mention Zevran's cock, hard is his hand. Better to start over. "It does concern me."

To his surprise, Zevran doesn't try to talk him out of it. Instead, he stops moving, and his hand on Alistair's goes from guiding to restraining. "Then let us do something about that."

Alistair eyes him warily, still braced for mockery or some form of persuasion, but Zevran is climbing off his lap and headed for his pack at the foot of the bed.

"Lie down," Zevran says absently, his attention fixed on whatever he's searching for. "On your back, please."

He provides no other explanation, and after a moment, Alistair does as he was told, stretching out on the bed with his hands behind his head so he can watch Zevran frown in concentration and then grin triumphantly.

"Ha!" Zevran says, looking up to transfer his pleased grin to Alistair, who smiles back.

Whatever it was he was searching for, it's small enough to fit in his hand, and Alistair doesn't get a good look at it until Zevran sets it down on the table beside the bed.

At which point Alistair's eyes go wide, wondering if Zevran has decided to ignore what he wanted rather than try to persuade him. He doesn't need anyone to tell him what a vial of oil is for, although maybe-

The pieces snap into place, and suddenly the room is too hot again, his skin tingling with the need for something he hadn't even considered he might want, before now.

Under that, though, is a touch of apprehension. "Does it hurt?" he asks.

Thank the Maker Zevran doesn't laugh, though there's a momentary tightening at the corners of his eyes like he had to work to stifle it. "Only when done badly, tesoro."

While Alistair is still trying to decide if that's reassuring, Zevran smirks and says, "And when have you ever seen me do anything badly?"

Just to tease him, Alistair says, "There was that time with the lock, when-"

"Yes, yes," Zevran says, waving the words away. "I promise you, my fingers are quite skilled at other things." To prove his point, he strokes Alistair's cock, looking pleased with himself when Alistair thrusts up into his fist. "Am I not?"

"Yes," Alistair gasps. He's torn between begging Zevran to stop before he loses control, and begging him to continue until that's exactly what happens.

He doesn't get the chance to do either. Zevran's hand squeezes once more and releases him, reaching for the vial of oil. Without meaning to, Alistair's eyes follow the movement. He trusts Zevran, but this is all so new, and he just doesn't _know_.

"Look at me," Zevran says, tapping his fingers on Alistair's chin, and Alistair blinks, forcing his gaze up to meet Zevran's very serious one. "I will be careful, but you must tell me if I hurt you. This is not the practice field, and pain is not something to be ignored."

The implication that Zevran could hurt him by accident should make him more nervous rather than less, but the first words are the ones that settle in his head, that promise to be careful.

He nods, if a little jerkily.

Zevran places a kiss on the inside of his thigh, then another on the other side, sucking on the skin the way he did before. And as before, it's an effective distraction: Alistair is so focused on the heat of Zevran's mouth that his fingers don't even register at first. It's just another sensation, one of so many new ones that he doesn't tense as Zevran presses one finger inside him.

It feels odd but not unpleasant, only able to hold his attention briefly before Zevran licks his cock from balls to head and everything else disappears. Maybe he wouldn't like the feel of Zevran's finger sliding into him under other circumstances, but in the present ones, he definitely doesn't mind at all. He minds even less when Zevran's finger brushes against something that sends sparks through his whole body.

"What...?" is the best he can do, and the only answer he gets is a self-satisfied chuckle.

More sparks jump all the way to his toes as Zevran repeats whatever he did before, effectively stopping any further questions. As his finger withdraws, his mouth descends, wrapping around Alistair's cock for one stroke before pulling off as he fucks Alistair with his finger again. He alternates between his mouth and his fingers, never both together, and Alistair loses himself in the two sensations.

Some time later, Zevran pulls away completely and Alistair whines in protest, blinking his eyes open to see Zevran kneeling between his thighs, fisting his own cock. Oil glistens along the length of it, and the sound of his hand moving is entirely obscene.

"Tell me if I should stop," Zevran says. He holds Alistair's gaze, waiting for a nod before sliding his arms under Alistair's knees to lift up his legs.

His cock feels twice as thick pressing against Alistair's ass as it did in his hand earlier, but it doesn't hurt as Zevran's hips move in small thrusts, pushing his cock deeper with each one. The stretch of it isn't uncomfortable the way Alistair expected, either. Combined with Zevran's expression and short, sharp breaths, it actually feels good. Better than good. Incredible. Amazing.

Zevran pulls almost all the way out and then presses in again, wrecking Alistair's search for the word to describe what it feels like. Much better to focus on the slow slide of Zevran's cock, the tight grip of his fingers, the way he smiles as he watches Alistair's face. He strokes Alistair's cock once, lightly, and Alistair groans, unable to decide if he wants to thrust up into Zevran's fist or down on to Zevran's cock. Either way, if this is Zevran's idea of a way to make him last longer, it's not working very well.

"There are those for whom being fucked is enough," Zevran says conversationally. He's set a slow, steady rhythm that makes it hard for Alistair to pay attention to what he's saying, even though he tries. "But for most, they need...mmm...shall we say, something more."

Alistair makes what he hopes is an "I'm listening" noise, rather than an "I'm about to die" noise.

"Would this be enough for you, then?" Zevran asks. Both his hands are back on Alistair's hips, his fingers stroking over the hollows. "Or would you need more? Could I fuck you like this until I wanted you to be done?" He kisses the inside of Alistair's knee, smiling. "How long would it take, before you begged?"

Not long, it turns out, though Alistair is only half aware of what's falling out of his mouth, because it also turns out that Zevran knew exactly what he was doing. Without a hand on his cock, he's stuck right on the edge, always _nearly_ there, wanting it to go on and wanting it to end, everything inside him winding tighter and tighter as Zevran fucks him in long, slow strokes. He clutches at the sheets, at the headboard, at his own hair, each breath ending on a groan, his eyes squeezed shut until tears run down his temples into his hair.

Zevran stops, and his fingers touch the corner of Alistair's eye, rubbing at the dampness. "Shhh, tesoro. Have I hurt you?"

"No!" Alistair shakes his head violently. "Just...please...I need...it's not _enough_!"

"That would indeed be the point," Zevran says, and Alistair can hear his smile. "Are you still concerned with being done too soon? If so, I can continue. All night, if you so desire."

Alistair makes a noise that's absolutely not a whimper. Part of him does want to continue, to feel that heat and pressure build long past the point his body would normally have given way, to see if Zevran really can hold him on that edge all night.

The rest of him thinks he might go mad if this lasts even a moment longer.

"Enough?" Zevran asks quietly, fingers trailing from the corner of Alistair's eye to his cheek, and Alistair nods. "Roll over, then."

He pulls all the way out, a strange and not entirely pleasant feeling, and leans backward so Alistair can roll onto his stomach. The mattress wouldn't be Alistair's first choice for something to rub against, but it's better than nothing, and his hips rock without conscious thought.

Zevran touches the small of his back. Lightly, but Alistair stills his hips anyway, letting Zevran spread his legs wider, waiting as patiently as he can. With his face buried in the mattress, at least he can't say anything embarrassing. It doesn't stop the groan as Zevran's cock pushes into him again, tormenting him with that slow slide. Alistair shudders, fisting the sheets until Zevran is stretched out on top of him, chest to back, hot and heavy and so very right.

From this position, he can feel Zevran's heartbeat thudding against his back, can feel his rapid breaths that make a lie out of his bantering tone when he says, "And is that better?"

Alistair answers by arching into him, and Zevran laughs, tangling his fingers with Alistair's above both their heads.

His strokes start slow, but this time, they pick up speed quickly, Zevran's hips grinding down into him and rubbing Alistair's cock against the mattress. He's whispering now, mostly in Antivan, but Alistair hears his name more than once. With his face in the mattress, all he has is sound, but he's had half a year to learn how to read Zevran's voice better than his face. Laughing at first, then reverent, and now desperate, cock driving down into him as their fingers grip tighter, and Alistair muffles his cries in the mattress as he spills across the sheets, shuddering again when Zevran gasps out his name, hips pressing down hard one last time.

No way to know how long they lie there afterward, panting and trembling, but eventually Zevran tries to pull away. Alistair makes a noise of protest and tightens his fingers, trying to keep Zevran right where he is.

Zevran, of course, has no trouble slipping away anyway. "Give me a moment," he says, and Alistair smiles to himself to hear the breathless quality in his voice. "Else we will both be sorry in the morning."

It really is only a few moments, and Alistair supposes it's worth it to clean up themselves and the sheets as best they can. As soon as Zevran is back in bed, though, Alistair wraps both arms and a leg around him. Zevran chuckles but doesn't object, sliding an arm around Alistair's waist as he snuggles closer.

"Good night," Alistair mumbles, sleep dragging him down fast.

"Good night, tesoro," Zevran murmurs, and Alistair falls asleep to an oh-so-familiar hand stroking his back.

###

He wakes a little after dawn and just lies there a while, marveling at what seems like a miracle, Zevran naked and warm against him. They're both half hard, and Alistair is thinking about what Zevran's cock would taste like when Zevran stirs.

"Sleep well?" Zevran asks. He sounds insufferably smug.

"All right," Alistair says, feigning indifference.

"What a pity," Zevran says. His hand snakes down between them to stroke Alistair's cock lightly. "If you slept poorly, then perhaps you wish to return to it? I would hate to disturb you with other, unimportant matters."

Alistair rolls over, pinning Zevran beneath him and straddling his thigh, giving both of them something to rub against. "Well, I'm awake now," Alistair says, trying to match Zevran's disinterested tone and failing miserably and not caring at all. "So you could tell me about these 'unimportant matters.'"

"I _could_ ," Zevran allows. "But it could take me quite some time. You know how these things go, all the little details that must be just so. And I know the others would be bereft without our presence at the breakfast table."

The words are barely out of his mouth before the door shakes under a hard knock and Brosca yells through the wood, "Joining us for breakfast?"

Surprised, Alistair jerks back, and Zevran takes immediate advantage, flipping them over so that he's now the one on top. While Alistair is still blinking in surprise, Zevran calls a cheerful, "In a moment!" to Brosca.

His tone says this is a morning like any other, but most other mornings, he isn't looking at Alistair with his eyes dark and his mouth curving up into a smile that promises Alistair everything he wants. Most mornings also don't involve him leaning down for a kiss, not even a kiss as light as this one.

"In a moment," he repeats against Alistair's mouth, then grins. "Or two."

"Or three?" Alistair asks, leaning up for another kiss.

"Certainly no more than four," Zevran agrees. "It would be entirely self-indulgent to need more than five. And six-"

Alistair shuts him up by kissing him.

It turns out to be an entirely self-indulgent morning.


End file.
